An Echo Of Eternity
by Rezeren
Summary: After his brother's death, Alfred is prepared to do anything to see him again- including defying his beliefs and hacking into a computer simulated world for the dead. His search leads him to his classmate Arthur, who has come here for unknown reasons and seems almost at home in this artificial afterlife. Reluctantly, Arthur agrees to help Alfred and try to work together. USUK.
1. The Ghost Town

**Hi! Idk if you know me or not but essentially I'm Satan incarnate and I'm currently on a posting high, so this one's going out.**

 **If there are any _Ash Song_ readers here, y'all are used to me and my bullshit. Or you would be if that fic was a regular part of your lives and I actually updated every once in a while lmao. Anyway. The new fic.**

 **So, this is a Black Mirror AU. Specifically, the season 3 episode San Junipero. If you're planning on watching the show and don't want it spoilt, I'd highly recommend you look away now (although the summary will have already ruined the premise of the episode. Get a load of that. I can ruin shit without you even needing to _read_ my stories now. I've reached a whole new level of being a dick).**

 **Anyway, if you've never seen the show, you don't necessarily need to. I'm borrowing the premise of _San Junipero_ and, well... the name _San Junipero._ Other than that, it's not a crossover. Just a really cool universe I wanted to explore.**

 **I'll explore Alfred's faith in relation to San Junipero more in later chapters, and hopefully do it in a respectful way. I'll also include any necessary warnings at the start of each chapter.**

 **Allons-y!**

* * *

 **One**

 **The Ghost Town**

The first thing he senses is the sound of waves in the distance, followed by the smell of salty air and something a lot sweeter drifting through the light breeze.

The ground is hard and uneven beneath him, and Alfred can feel something digging rather uncomfortably into his back. He opens his eyes to see a deep navy sky up above, stars spread around in familiar patterns. He used to have a night light when he was about seven; it cast swirling constellations on his ceiling that he could look up at when he was falling asleep.

As he sits up, he catches sight of the sea. It's directly in front of him, a couple of hundred yards further down the beach. He can barely make it out in the dark, but the moonlight is just about strong enough.

It looks, sounds and smells real enough. Alfred isn't expecting that, and it throws him off a little.

He glances down at the ground, shuffling slightly. The ground itself isn't the cause of the discomfort; it's the backpack strapped around his shoulders, that he must have been lying on. He's grateful it's here, however, because the alternative would have been more painful still.

The beach is pebbly, which is a shame; he always preferred the ones with just the sand, on summer days in the boiling heat when Nana would drive them down to the sea at the weekend. Sometimes the sand would get so hot it would burn and he and Mattie would race down the beach to cool off and splash about in the shallows. Their parents never let them do that when they were little. Their mother said they could get dragged out to sea, even if they were only in the shallows, and their father always grumbled about how much sand they'd get in the car afterwards. But Nana never cared. She'd probably let him run off now, despite him no longer being a little kid, the pebbles instead of sand, and the night instead of day.

But Nana never came here. She wouldn't have wanted to.

It's just some fake sea anyway. Like in a video game, but with a far superior budget.

Alfred gets to his feet and turns around.

Dotted out in thousands of lights is a town, layered out on a slope at the foot of what he knows are mountains, having seen all the posters, but can't make out at all against the sky. He tunes in the noise at once, as if it was all waiting to load before he looked this way- or perhaps he could hear it all along, and the sounds of cars and people chattering were so ordinary that he didn't even acknowledge it. The sea, on the other hand, is a different matter. He lives nowhere near it, after all.

There are other people on the beach besides him, all further up, and he tenses when he spots them. He's not supposed be here, really, and people are going to ask questions if they have spotted him showing up on the beach instead of the mandated apartments residents and ordinary visitors alike are given to start off with. People don't just pop up in random places. That's not how it works here, not unless you're working off the system.

The sight of people sends chills through his skin.

It's ridiculous, he knows straight away, but San Junipero gets nicknamed the Ghost Town for a reason. These people could be visitors for all he knows, but they could also be residents. And the thought of that is too unnerving to comprehend.

It's awful. It's like living in limbo. These people have nowhere else to go. They're probably old too, and as cool as it would be to become eternally youthful, there's something really creepy about the secrets each one of them gets to hide. Everyone here is in disguise, like some freakish masked ball for the dead.

The whole concept would amuse him if it were in a film or a comic, or even some damn play to perform in this year for drama club, but this is too much.

It's all too _real._

He wonders if Mattie felt this scared when he arrived. Or maybe he just accepted it straight away, and perhaps found comfort in how normal it all felt. Mattie was always the calmer of the two of them.

He still is. Because he's out there somewhere, in this hyped-up ghost town. And something must have convinced him to stay, because there's no way he would have wanted to do so in the beginning.

Their mother always used to say this town was for the lost. For the broken and desolate who lacked the courage to find true peace. Their father was kinder. When Nana died, he told the boys that Nana was brave. That they needn't be scared for her, not when she would find her way. That most people just needed a little guidance, and that they'd always find end up where they belonged eventually.

It seemed fanciful at the time. Like the idea of _being_ the guidance, like a guardian angel leading souls to heaven, was a heroic and noble quest. The boys had soon turned it into a game; they spent hours in their garden, running around and pretending to be angels. They fashioned wings out of cardboard and splashed white and gold paint on them, then climbed the small birch tree to pretend they could fly. They would lead Nana's soul to heaven, even though they both knew she was brave enough to make it there herself.

He snaps out of his thoughts as a couple pass nearby, their footsteps crunching over the rocks. It's young man and woman, both giggling and whispering excitedly. Their hushed tones become audible as they draw closer.

'Come on, Hal. It'll be like in Miami. '92, was it?'

'1994, hon. And we were stoned. We coulda drowned, ya know. No one coulda seen us in the dark.'

'Nah. We didn't go in past our necks, and you got it all wrong,' the woman chuffs, clutching the man's arm and lurching forwards slightly for another string of chuckles. 'No drowning here. Gotta worry about the sharks getting us, though!'

'Like they'd put sharks here. Honestly,' the man laughs.

'Would be kinda sweet, though, right. Pretty cool stuff. They wouldn't bother us.'

'The birds bother us plenty. Singin' away when I'm trying to sleep. Hey, that really ain't too comfy down there, man.'

The couple are mere feet from him now, staring down at him in puzzlement. He stiffens, his fingers curling around the pebbles at his side and squeezing them shakily. It's only to relieve stress, but a wild, intrusive thought occurs; what if they can tell? That he's not a resident, and not a legal visitor? What if they know? Will he have to protect himself?

He shakes the thought away immediately. It's a dumb, horrible thing to think. They're just people. Misguided visitors, his mother would say, or lost souls who are yet to find peace, as his father would put it. People who are so, so much older than him, if those years they mentioned were anything to go by- although they don't look much more than ten years older than him at most now.

'Really, you're gonna do your ass in,' the man continues, smiling sympathetically. 'You wanna try a different beach for sittin' down. And we really wanna pick a different time for a swim.'

'I told you,' the woman laughs, 'it's more fun at night.' She leans in and plucks a kiss on the man's cheek, to which he leans in and grins.

The couple leave him there, staring in confusion as they race off down the beach towards the sea. No matter how far away they get, he can still hear them hooting and cheering.

There's nothing troubled about them, from what he can see. They don't look lost or misguided. And most of all, they really do look happy. As if they truly have found peace here.

San Junipero isn't for everyone, but it certainly is for many. Just not for him.

People are saying Mattie was young, that he still is in shock from his untimely death, that he doesn't really know what he wants. That he must be afraid, and understandably so. So maybe all he needs is a little guidance. Some help. A guardian angel, or whatever's good enough to match that.

And so, Alfred chose to come.

* * *

The email came two weeks after the accident, when the trial period had ended. As both next of kin and legal guardians, Mom and Dad were informed when the decision was made, and exactly _what_ the decision was. He heard Mom's choked sobs in the kitchen, and Dad trying to calm her down, insisting that Mattie must have been scared, and that there was no shame in that.

'He can still leave, Amanda. They don't hold people hostage there. You can leave whenever you like if you really want to. It's the law.'

'But he _didn't_ leave. He chose to stay. What if he wants to keep it that way? You know what they teach at schools, and those people they let in to talk about it like it's just the same as lectures about how to cross the road safely or how to perform CPR! They treat it like it's compulsory to join San Junipero, just because of the entrance law.' Alfred's mom had taken a deep breath after her outburst, and when she spoke again, her voice was much lower. 'You know, Derek… sometimes I wish they hadn't passed it. That it had been voted down.'

'You don't mean that.'

Alfred had heard a long sigh. 'I wish I didn't. I hate myself for even thinking it. I know so many people benefit from it. I know it wouldn't be fair on them. But this… this just makes it hard. You know it does.'

There had been a lot of snuffling and eventually the unmistakable sound of moaning after that, which could only mean his parents were kissing _and_ crying at the same time, which was a level of gross Alfred was not prepared to listen to. But it was fine, because he had already heard what he needed to. He would have gone up to his room there and then, but he was fixed to the spot, his stomach twisting a little and his head strangely light, like he'd gotten a head rush from standing up too quickly. After the first few moments, he began to try and rationalise. He must have misheard whatever they were talking about. Maybe it was the latest twist in one of Dad's radio shows. Maybe one of the characters had died and chosen gone to San Junipero. Dad always talked about his favourite show as passionately as Alfred would about all his TV series, so maybe that was all it was.

But it couldn't be, because Dad always listened to it on his drive back from work each evening on the weekdays when it played, and it was Saturday morning. Besides, Mom didn't care about it at all. She didn't even like it, in fact. If Dad was ever home early or he had a day off, he'd listen to the radio in the kitchen, and Mom hated it. She always said the voices were too shrilly and overacted. So it couldn't be that.

But Alfred already knew it couldn't be that. He just wasn't sure how to even properly think about what it really was.

They didn't have San Junipero when his parents were kids. They never grew up in a world were it was not only around, but completely ordinary. The bill to allow entry to all, money be damned, was passed in the US when Alfred was five. Before that, only the rich or those over the age of seventy-three got in, and before that, only the rich. Most were and still are elderly. Even today, not everyone can just waltz in; the upload has to happen before and during the actual dying part, so unless you die in a hospital or a clinic with the equipment, you won't get in.

Mom always accused the process of actually killing people. 'It's the upload that does it,' she had told the boys once. 'The doctors decide when to do it- to cut their lives short, but choosing when to upload their souls. It's not right. They shouldn't have the right to decide when it's time for these people to go.'

Alfred, who was twelve at the time, said, 'But they do that with people in comas? Don't the families say when it happens? And pets too. People say when pets get put down.'

Alfred has always been the one who could put up a good argument, who challenged anyone and everyone as a small child. He was the one who had apparently been a nightmare toddler, who got put on the naughty step at least three times a week, who skipped learning to talk and went straight onto learning to shout, and who could never sit still at the dinner table or in church.

Mattie was never like that. He was the quiet one, the calmer one. More obedient, less challenging, more of a listener than a talker or a shouter. He used to follow Alfred around and sit and occupy himself for far longer than Alfred ever could with crayons and paints. They'd both been asked to light the candles in church one year when they were nine, but in the end, only Matthew had been allowed to. Alfred had gotten too excitable and almost dropped the match he'd been given, and after that, no one really wanted to trust him with fire. He'd thrown a massive tantrum and Dad had to carry him out of the church so he wouldn't interrupt the service anymore, and he'd been grounded for a week for misbehaving. He never got to see Mattie light the candles, but his brother must have managed it without a fuss because there were no tantrums from him that day.

Alfred was never really a bad kid, but by comparison, Mattie was always the _good_ one. No one ever disputed that. Mattie was never disobedient. Mattie never deviated from their family's norms or ever even disputed them. No one would ever have suspected this.

No one can really expect anything completely, Alfred realises now. He clearly can't even expect things from himself.

* * *

The air seems to grow warmer the closer he gets to the city. He trudges along the beach in a kind of daze. Already he can hear the music, muffled thumping and drumming and echoed voices ringing across the nearest street. His heart hammers against his chest along with it, and the rising heat in his skin makes him stop for a moment and take several deep breaths. Once there, he'll need to get a bearing off the place- the hacker he'd gone to gave him a rough outline of a couple of the more popular eras, but it was hard enough to follow, just _listening_ to someone else explain it.

 _The 80s tend to get the highest numbers,_ PATCO had informed him, right from the get-go. Their offers were far from the cheapest around, but they seemed to offer the best selection of packages within a fifty mile radius and the discretion worked for Alfred just fine. _But that's mostly for the older folks. Newer residents, especially the younger ones, tend to stick to more familiar territory. The last couple of decades are probably your safest bet, but you should know your brother better than me._

Alfred could almost laugh at that. Yeah, he really should know Mattie better than anyone. Or even at all.

But for all the good living in the same house, the same fucking _room_ for sixteen years did him. He'd often idly thought about how much like strangers he and his brother were, but only now does it truly hit him with any kind of severity.

Not only does he not know which era Mattie might keep to in San Junipero, but he couldn't even anticipate Mattie coming here at all. Alfred's been called inattentive before, but this is something else entirely.

The next big kick was finding out just how damn much it _cost_ to get a Variant Chip- the standard issue for the elderly, the dying, for anyone with enough money to pay for being able to move between the different eras of San Junipero. No matter where he looked online, Alfred simply could not find a good, affordable deal that would allow him the same features and freedom as residents and legal visitors. So he'd eventually opted for an Indeterminate Chip, the cheapest and arguably most useless of all of them. He's got a good deal out of it, however; it's available for an upgrade within two years, so long as he's got enough cash by the end of that period. It's not ideal, but it's good enough. It has to be.

There's nothing quite like his failures constantly being on his mind now for him to feel like the worst brother imaginable- but at least coming here dulls the shame a little. This is the right move, he keeps telling himself. This is a good one.

Mattie's out here somewhere. He just needs to find him.

* * *

Turning out of a short alley leading from the beach and onto the first street is very much like stepping out into one of those classic movies Nana used to watch in the care home. She was obsessed with the decades long past, the strange fashions and music of the mid to late 20th century, the cultural revolutions as she liked to call it. Alfred had always thought he'd understood it, to an extent. She'd owned the lounge area when he and Mattie had come to visit, other residents be damned. They never seemed to mind much, anyway. Everyone else seemed quite lifeless compared to Nana, the way they lay sunken in their chairs, asleep or rambling on about nothing in particular to each other. Nana was the life and soul of that home, and the boys' visits had always been filled with tales of the past, booming ABBA and Pink Floyd, and loud, raucous laughter.

 _Nana would like this,_ Alfred thinks in a kind of daze, smiling hesitantly as he takes in the sight of bars, restaurants and nightclubs all lined up on the brightly lit street. There are dozens of shops too, their windows lit up with displays despite the late hour. Alfred wonders if they even close at normal times, like they would in the real world. There are decorations up above, too, hanging from roof to roof; they look light massive fairy lights, and they look spectacular. The nightclubs- at least Alfred assumes they're nightclubs, even though he's never actually been to or even seen a proper city one in real life- don't even have queues. He went with some of his friends at school on a short summer trip to Lake Michigan, and a couple of them had snuck out of their motel one night with fake IDs and a whole wad of cash. And after the grounding and vomiting, pretty much all they had to say was the queue was too damn long. Worse than the one at the Comic Con back in April, which Alfred found very hard to believe. Here, though, it's as if the concept altogether simply doesn't exist. People walk in and out as freely as they would do any shop. There are no bouncers at the doors, no ID checks. He could probably get in in his sneakers if he wanted to.

It's neat. Really neat. Nana would like this too. She used to go out in her youth, before Dad was born and she moved to the US. She once proudly regaled Alfred and Mattie with tales of band tours and clubs, before Mom put a stop to it. She'd be delighted to see this street in all its vibrance.

Alfred catches himself quickly. Nana _wouldn't_ like this. Of course she wouldn't. She would hate this place. The lights, the music, the life- it's tempting, Mom would say. It looks pretty, it looks perfect. It's supposed to, to lure people in. But San Junipero is all wrong. It always has been.

 _Get it together,_ he thinks. _No daydreaming in the Ghost Town._

But it's hard not to think of Nana, especially when he looks at the people. Without a Variant Chip, Alfred has no idea which era he's arrived in. His best bet is observing the fashion all around him, and comparing it with what he knows already. Nana's picture albums, history classes at school, some of his favourite older movies- they should all be a help to him in that moment, but Alfred is suddenly drawing a blank. He spots a young women in a leather jacket, with heels so tall it's a wonder her toes aren't in serious pain. _Maybe she knows ballet,_ Alfred decides weakly, his mind spinning for answers. Her hair… her hair… it's pulled up into one frizzy mop at the top, and suddenly he's thinking, _80s? Maybe? They said the 80s were the most popular._

But the more popular something is, the more people gravitate to it. And in this sea of faces, colours, jackets, dresses, smiles and laughter, how is he even meant to begin his search? He can't afford any of PATCO's additional features, like access to the basic database or even somewhere here he can rent as his own home during his online hours. And suddenly, everything seems so monstrously unfair and hopeless. How the fuck can he find Mattie in a multidimensional afterlife filled with millions?

'I don't even have a fucking map,' he mutters aloud, a lump forming in his throat.

The woman he spotted earlier is now chatting with another girl, but she looks entirely different- a tank top with what Alfred can only assume is designed with some kind of animal fur pattern, only it's difficult to tell from this distance and with the flashing lights and shadows moving around constantly. She's in tight jeans and boots too, and Alfred knows in that moment that there's absolutely no way she's dressed for the 80s.

Shit. He takes a deep breath. _Shit._

Everywhere he looks, every time he guesses an era, someone else will emerge with something completely contradictory- pants with wide, billowing ends here, oddly shaved hairstyles there. He even spots _glowsticks_ at one point, curling around peoples' necks and wrists like jewellery, besides simply being waved around. The music is no help. From several buildings it pumps out faintly and incomprehensibly, simply a jumbled mash of melodic sound. Alfred can't recognise any of the songs, let alone decide when they're from.

Panic swirls in his stomach, and he backs away quickly, suddenly desperate for the quiet and darkness of the alleyway he came out of. The beach doesn't seem too daunting now, not compared to the thriving mass of people- of _dead people-_ in the street. And the sheer numbers are one thing, but the _mystery_ of all of it…

Alfred has absolutely no idea which era he's landed in. The seller from PATCO never mentioned anything about eras _merging_. Is that even allowed? Is that what's actually going on here, or is Alfred just misinterpreting everything?

Maybe he should have paid more attention in history class, or to Nana's stories and pictures, or to the costumes in those classic movies he likes.

'Fuck,' he whispers, bending over for a moment, his shaking hands reaching down to grasp his knees and lean on them. This is a recent development for him, these dreadful moments of panic that come. Before a few months ago, the worst he'd ever felt was mild stage fright in school productions, or the last minute realisation that he had homework. He'd never had to worry about these attacks, or the way the world could suddenly swirl out of focus in a dizzying blur, or how it could somehow feel as if he'd been winded and had completely left his own body at the same time.

Not until he'd come back from the lake trip. Not until he'd arrived back home, to his mother, silent with grief, and his father, who had hoarsely told him there had been an accident.

He breathes in and out, slowly and deeply, closing his eyes. _One, two, three, four… one, two, three, four…_

He lost Mattie the first time this happened. But this time… this time he's finding him. He has to.

Alfred opens his eyes, ignoring the fear curling inside him. With one last deep breath, he straightens up and steps out onto the street again, watching the crowd of people cautiously. He tries to think of what his dad, ever the voice of jokes and optimism, would say. At least no one looks hostile? At least there's no mugging in San Junipero- probably? Come to think of it, aside from illegal visitors such as himself, is there any illegal activity here? Is there any need for it?

He's certain he's learnt all about it at school, but he doesn't have much longer to dwell on it. From somewhere down the street, beyond the main bulk of the crowd, comes a bright, blaring light, and a hush falls over the people on the street. Alfred has a small moment of quiet to try and recognise any of the dim music from inside the bars closest to him, before a booming voice accompanies the light.

'Vortex Flash Hour!' the voice calls, and a cheer goes up from the crowd. They all turn to the light at the end of the street and begin shuffling along, abandoning all interest in any of the other buildings along the street. Automatically, like so many instances of falling into place among students heading for assembly, Alfred follows closely, momentarily more concerned about standing alone and out of place than about being so close to the citizens and visitors of San Junipero. He has no idea what's going on, but he's too anxious to stray from the group, to stand out in any way. At least with them, he might fit in. No matter how weirdly dressed he was told he'd be for the likes of the party town, it's not as if there's a fashion norm among these people. Everyone is dressed so differently, so bizarrely in comparison to each other, that he feels oddly safe to be in their midst.

The Vortex, as it turns out, is a small, purple nightclub at the end of the street, right on the corner. It dwarves next to many other buildings opposite it and down neighbouring streets, yet it shines brightest of all, and its music is the most coherent of all- perhaps because the electronic beat, however subdued on the outside, is familiar. Alfred's eyes widen as he draws closer. He bites his lip nervously, hoping that this club is like the others on the street, and will permit anyone to enter. Sure enough, people are just striding through, and there are so many of them too; more are coming from other streets, all dressed in a whole variety of attire. The Vortex is far from the biggest or fanciest of the clubs, but there's no denying the way it attracts everyone in the vicinity. People head towards it almost hypnotically, but their faces are all fully conscious and filled with life. They chatter and laugh and sing along, and Alfred begins feeling a strange tug to join in too when he finally does recognise the song. He can't remember the name, but it was one of Nana's many favourites from the 70s, and a frequent at the care home.

Alfred doesn't really know what to do in this strange, ethereal moment, but his feet are less indecisive. Five seconds later, he is passing over the threshold of the Vortex's front entrance, and is immediately hit with beams of colours raining down from the ceiling. The light is bright but not blinding, and Alfred stops in his tracks for a moment to simply acknowledge the strange spectacle before him.

Along a short corridor and down a few steps lies the main dancing floor, roughly the size of the playground at his old elementary school- enough to fit a couple of hundred comfortably, and a lot more if they didn't mind the squeeze. And people clearly don't, because they are absolutely everywhere, splashed in blues, greens, yellows, reds, pinks, purples- all within the colourful spotlights, all dancing and singing and moving about with drinks. Skirted around the sides are booths of tables and velvet seats, occupied by groups and loners alike, who are drinking, chatting and watching. Further along the wall is a bar, and after that is a set of steps leading up to the elevated stage, where the speakers are blasting the song.

 _'Oooooohhhh… I feel love, I feel love, I feel love, I feel love, I feel looooove…'_

Alfred feels frozen in the moment, trapped between memories of Nana and her grandsons singing it so loudly that one of the carers had to turn off the music and tell them to stop, and this moment right here, lost in a world he barely understands yet is somehow more calming now than anything else has been since he got here. He glances over at the booths again, and decides to head over and sit down for a bit. There are plenty of others sitting by themselves, and no one's staring at them. It may be loud in here, but everyone seems entirely entranced in dancing, drinking and singing, too distracted to even notice him. He likes that immediately. Perhaps just stopping here for a bit will give him a chance to clear his head and plan his next move.

He heads on down the steps, deciding against simply skirting around the walls to get to the booths when the quickest route is simply passing through the dancing crowd in the middle. No one will care what he's doing in the lights and the dim, he tells himself. It's fine. As long as he doesn't bump into anyone or fall over or anything, this will be easy.

 _'I feel loooooove… I feel love…'_

He almost grins. Mattie loved singing it along with him and Nana. Maybe he'd want to come to somewhere like this. Maybe this is a good place to start. Maybe things aren't quite as hopeless as he feared. There has to be ways of finding people here, without the use of accessing the system database, surely. It has to be at least a little like the real world. He could ask around. Tell people Mattie's blocked him, when they ask why he doesn't just search for him via the database. Say it's an emergency. Beg. Plead. Do anything.

His being here is doing anything, after all. This is what true desperation must look like.

In the multicoloured, moving lights, with their shadowy features indistinguishable and their bodies moving to the rhythm, they look and feel more like regular people than ever, Alfred muses as he passes through them. He was right- no one cares what he's doing, or what he looks like. No one looks unhappy in the slightest either, from what he can make out. Alfred never considered himself overly brainwashed by his mother's rants about the supposed desolation of the Ghost Town, but he had still envisioned it as something… less than this.

The singing has stopped, but the electronic beat continues on into an instrumental section, and Alfred squeezes his way past a trio of dancers, being bathed in a beam of green light from above. He grins and steps to the side, dodging the trio and allowing a pink light to drench him. He should get out more, in the real world; not for the first time, he finds himself wishing he had snuck out with his classmates on that trip to go to that nightclub. Sure, he would have gotten into trouble like they did, but as the weeks have passed by since then, he has begun thinking more and more about how he should have enjoyed the trip more, and not spent the whole time playing on his phone.

 _Or better still,_ a part of his mind whispers mutinously, _maybe you shouldn't have gone at all._

' _Oooooohhhh… fall and free, fall and free, fall and free, fall and free, fall and freeeee…'_

Alfred sobers up quickly, his daze coming to an end. He hops to the side to avoid crashing into a guy carrying drinks in both hands, and finally finds himself standing over the booths, on the outskirts of the dance floor. He breathes a sigh of relief and examines each seat, looking for a nice empty section to have a moment to himself. To his dismay, he notices quickly that most of the seats are already taken, and those that aren't are far from private; in fact, the only available spaces he can make out seem to be at the edges of booths, squeezed up against groups of people sitting round tables together.

'Shit,' he mutters. What now?

Directly in front of him is one such booth, occupied by what appears to be a group of friends at first glance, but who seem far less familiar with each other the longer Alfred watches them. None of them are actually talking to one another- not even the odd little bit of chatter here and there. Two are simply sipping their drinks in silence, undeterred by those around them. One man at the edge is leaning on the back of the seat with his elbow, perched on his knees and his neck craned to peer at the dance floor, a wide, drunken smile on his face. He waves at one point with his free hand, and Alfred turns his head and spots a woman nearby waving back, before she dives into the crowd and is lost in the rhythm. One big, beefy man with a Mohawk and tattoos up and down his bare arms has started to sing along now the instrumental part is over, forcing his voice to go ridiculously high-pitched. A few others around the table giggle, and Alfred finds himself joining in before he can stop himself.

They must all be a bunch of strangers who are comfortable sharing a table with one another, which is probably the best solution to Alfred's dilemma. There's room in their booth, and he's sure they won't mind another person joining them. If he just squeezes past the guy watching his companion dancing and sits next to a blonde guy in a black hoodie, who is leaning back against his seat with his head resting in his hand and fingers threading through tousled hair, watching the man with the Mohawk singing with a smirk...

Alfred stops dead in his tracks. His stomach lurches violently in complete shock, and his whole body stiffens. For a few, startling seconds, he can't even think. His mind becomes a blank pit, before descending into a jumbled mess of questions, exclamations, meaningless rambles- and then finally he manages to break one word apart from the rest, and it somehow finds its way to his lips.

' _Arthur?'_

The blonde guy, now distinguishable as visibly younger than the rest- in fact, no more than a teen, no more than _Alfred's_ age, the latter knows with absolute certainty- glances away from the Mohawk man to look back at Alfred. The boy's eyes widen, round and astonished, and whatever small amount of doubt Alfred may have been harbouring at the back of his head dissipates in an instant.

'Arthur,' he says again. 'Arthur, oh my gosh-'

Quick as a flash, the other boy shoots up from his seat and practically leaps over the man next to him, landing with a surprising amount of grace on the floor. Alfred takes a step back, bewildered and still thoroughly stunned, before the boy straightens up, grabs Alfred's arm and pulls him roughly back onto the dance floor. The boy leads him across the room in march-like fashion, weaving in and out through the crowd. Alfred tries to protest, but his voice catches in his throat. The boy- _Arthur-_ is smaller than him and thinner, yet he is definitely stronger than he looks. So much for the kid Alfred knows, who actively avoids gym class at every opportunity and outright steers clear of any recreational activities after school.

They're heading up the steps now, making their way into the corridor beyond the main room. Alfred looks around nervously, worried that they might be drawing attention. But the corridor is deserted and no one has followed them out. Just where is Arthur taking him? And why on earth is he _here?_

'Arthur-' he gasps, his mind spinning. San Junipero is home to _millions,_ spread over multiple eras and all within an enclosed, multidimensional region. Alfred knew how difficult it would be to find Mattie, knew how small the odds were that he would be successful in his endeavours- and yet somehow, _accidentally,_ he's found someone he knows in real life. Not very well, sure, but… _how?_ How is this happening?

He'd call it a miracle, if he weren't starting to panic once again. Really, really badly.

Arthur Kirkland, the British kid who transferred to their school about a third of the way through freshman year, isn't exactly a teacher's pet. But he's _that_ kid in the class. The one who stays behind at recess to help the teacher tidy up, the one who spends lunchtimes in the library, who gets asked to mentor other kids on occasion. When he first arrived, Alfred was the one who got stuck mentoring _him,_ because he'd just done especially well on his last chemistry test and the school assumed Arthur would need help adjusting to an American school, four months in. They were incredibly wrong on that front, as it turned out, and the mentoring had ended after less than two weeks. They had had pretty much nothing to do with each other after that. It was Mattie that Arthur ended up getting to know. They weren't overly close friends from what Alfred had known (or cared about), but they got along well and sometimes studied together.

Is… is Arthur here for Mattie too? Alfred sucks in a deep breath, trying not to trip as Arthur pulls him out the front door to the Vortex and onto the street. No, surely not? Arthur doesn't seem to be the overly caring type; he never hangs around with anyone at school. He must have liked Matthew, sure, but they didn't know each other well enough for Arthur to bankrupt himself getting an officially licensed chip.

Unless he didn't. Alfred opens his mouth, ready to begin releasing a whole tirade of questions, but Arthur drags him across the road and pushes him into a thin, heavily graffitied alleyway between two buildings, opposite the Vortex. Alfred presses himself up against the wall, slightly winded from the sudden escape from the nightclub. Less than three feet in front of him, Arthur stands there, glaring at him. Aside from the hoodie, decorated with little spikes on the shoulders and rolled halfway up his arm, he has what Alfred can just about make out in the overhead lights as a red scarf and a scrunched-up wristband, with torn jeans and black boots. He looks- what would Nana call it? He looks _punk rock._ No more bizarre than anyone else in the Vortex, but incredibly weird when Alfred connects it with the face of his reclusive and generally less flashy classmate. When he is just about recovered from running and the shock still coursing through him, Arthur speaks.

'What the _fuck?'_ he says.

'Nice to see you too,' Alfred retorts, his heart pounding. Nerves, adrenaline, the exercise, all three- he's not sure which one is the reason he can hear the blood roaring in his ears.

Arthur's face is contorted in the biggest frown Alfred has seen him wear yet, which is really saying something. His eyes are still wide as saucers too. He looks thoroughly mortified.

'How did you find me?' he demands.

Alfred manages a laugh, which quickly turns into a cough. 'I didn't even mean to. I just walked in there and… there you were.'

Arthur stares at him folding his arms. 'No. No fucking way.'

Alfred raises his hands, smiling nervously. 'I shit you not, man. I had no idea you were here. I mean- this is… this is _crazy._ What _are_ you doing here?'

Arthur actually looks offended now, he's so outraged. 'What am _I_ doing here? What are _you_ doing here?'

He doesn't say it, but Alfred knows he's thinking it. _This is the last place you'd come to. This place goes against your core beliefs, for fuck's sake._

Everyone at school knows about it, ever since his mom began demanding the board of governors take the San Junipero talks off the list of compulsory events for students to attend. He and Mattie had quickly been hailed as the religious nuts of the school, as if either of them were even half as passionate as their mom about it.

'Shit,' Arthur says suddenly, now staring off into space. 'I- _shit.'_

'What?' Alfred says, wondering if it's possible to burst a vein in San Junipero- because it sure looks as if Arthur might.

Arthur looks back at him, startled. 'Matthew's here?'

Alfred jumps slightly, his skin going cold. His steadily slowing heartbeat is suddenly beating against his chest again. 'You've seen him?' he gasps, failing to recognise Arthur's words as a question.

Arthur's anger is all but gone. His frown is more troubled than anything now. 'No, I… I didn't know he was here. Not until now. He must be. Why else would you have come here?'

'... Oh.' Alfred looks down, disappointment washing over him. There's an uncomfortable churning in his stomach now, and the sudden energy he felt moments before feels like some kind of fever dream. 'Then… why are you here?' he asks again.

Arthur looks lost in thought, and when he speaks, he ignores the question. 'I never thought to look for him,' he mutters. 'I just assumed… you know…'

'That he'd bail the minute he had the chance?' Alfred offers. 'Yeah. We all thought that. Then we got the email, after the trial period. Said he'd chosen to stay.'

Arthur nods, looking thoroughly uncomfortable. Now that all that panicked aggression has left him, he seems downright awkward. 'Wow. That must have been months ago, though. I haven't heard anyone mentioning it.'

Alfred laughs, properly this time, full of bitterness. 'Yeah, 'cause it's always gone down _so_ well when the subject of my family and San Junipero come up at school. Mom won't talk about it in public, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't want me to either. She'd have a heart attack if she knew I was here, and then she'd be the one coming here for the trial period and freaking out about being in this place.'

He realises after saying it that he's messed up. The look Arthur gives him clearly suggests that the other boy has put two and two together. 'She doesn't know you're here,' he observes, his voice strangely soft. 'Does anyone?'

'Yeah, obviously,' Alfred lies. 'I'm too young to get a license on my own.'

'Which means you're not here alone,' Arthur says simply. 'Did your dad come with you?'

'I- what? No.' Alfred blinks in confusion. He _really_ doesn't like the intent look Arthur's giving him, like he's some maths equation on a whiteboard at school. Arthur gets very fixated on things in the classroom; some of the other kids joke about it on occasion, but most are just in awe. _Arthur's too smart for his own good,_ Alfred realises. _He's seeing through the lies. He's figuring it out._

Arthur is silent for a few more seconds, then he says, very seriously, 'If you're under eighteen, a parent or guardian must register you for a visitor's license.'

'I know that,' Alfred says uneasily, desperately running through sufficient explanations he gave give in his head. 'My- my dad-'

'And if a minor is permitted to enter,' Arthur continues, as if he's reciting it all directly from some San Junipero visiting rulebook, 'they must be accompanied by an adult. Generally one responsible for them, sometimes someone else given express permission by their family. So you can't be here on your own. Legally, anyway.'

Alfred stares at him, his jaws hanging open. '... So it's not enough that you've gotta be a know-it-all at school, but you have to go and become the San Junipero expert too? And how do you know I'm not here with someone else-?'

'Because you're a fucking terrible liar,' Arthur says, exasperated. 'And because you'd be with Matthew already if you had proper access to the database. Seriously, you're going to have to get better than this. No offence, but no one is going to believe that your parents let you come here.'

'No one's gonna find out about this,' Alfred growls, hoping Arthur can't see how nervous he is. He's truly busted now, and there's no way of getting out of this.

'Then you need to be more careful,' Arthur says, wholly unimpressed. 'For starters, actually memorise the visitor agreement so you can pretend you've ticked all the boxes and actually consented to it. And maybe take some extra drama classes.'

He's being so _smug_ about it now, no matter how badly he tries to hide it, and Alfred has had enough of having been backed into the corner like this. Only when he properly processes Arthur's words and moves on from being completely insulted does an idea occur to him. 'What, like _you_ did?' he shoots back.

Arthur flinches ever so slightly, and now he's the one who looks like a deer in the headlights. It lasts for only the briefest of moments before he regains his composure, but it's enough.

'Oh yeah,' Alfred says, grinning now. 'You're on your own too, huh? Planned it all pretty well, memorised the rules so no one can catch you out? How did that work for you?'

'What the hell is it to you?' Arthur spits, not even bothering to deny it. Alfred at least appreciates that Arthur isn't attempting to insult his intelligence anymore.

'So,' he says, pressing his hands together, a strange burst of confidence taking hold of him. Now that all cards are on the table and he knows his classmate is in a similar predicament to him. 'Neither of us are here with a license, right?'

Arthur turns his head, eyes on the end of the alleyway where the lights from the Vortex just about reach. He looks the other way them, his eyes narrowed and scanning around cautiously for anyone nearby. He takes a deep breath and bites his lip. 'You really need to watch what you say here. I've already said too much.'

Alfred scoffs. 'Are you kidding me? This place is way more chill than I thought it would be. There weren't any bouncers at the doors or anything-'

'Just because you can't see the staff doesn't mean they aren't around,' Arthur says carefully. 'This isn't like the real world, okay? We're inside _their_ system. Which they obviously monitor. With so many people here, all making their own noise and whatnot, it's pretty difficult for them to pick out individual voices and locate any, uh… invasions, as they'd probably call them. But you still have to watch yourself. Don't draw unnecessary attention. Or any attention at all, for that matter.'

'Hey man, you were the one giving me third-degree,' Alfred says. 'Don't you think asking all those questions is gonna perk up their ears?'

'I'm just trying to give you some friendly advice,' Arthur says stiffly. 'Whoever sold you your chip clearly didn't do a good enough job. You stand out in more ways than one. Look at your outfit.'

Alfred suddenly feels very self-conscious. 'What's wrong with it?'

Arthur rolls his eyes. 'Nothing in that respect. But no one dresses like that here. Your whole look screams _high school kid_.'

'No one in that weird ass nightclub was wearing normal clothes,' Alfred protests. 'What's up with that place, anyway? What era are we even in? Everyone in there's dressed like it's some crazy mashup.'

Arthur's palm is already pressed to his forehead. He sighs. 'You've got an Indeterminate Chip, haven't you? You can't control what era you land in?'

'No,' Alfred mumbles, feeling his cheeks beginning to grow hot.

Arthur grimaces. 'We're in the 70s. 1975 to be exact. But it doesn't matter which year you've picked in the Vortex. The club is multidimensional, they have it in every plane. The whole point of it is to facilitate people who want to experience multiple eras of music at once. They'll play anything in there, and you get people dressing up from all over time. Each hour they'll do a different year. They even do Roaring 20s Night each month for the jazz fans. And they do Flash Hour every evening, where they just scramble a bunch of songs together from whenever. People go wild for Flash Hour. You never know what to expect.'

'... Right.' Alfred's head is spinning. Arthur's explanation has at least helped clear up several things, but it doesn't change how wild everything still feels. 'Well, I couldn't get a Variant. They cost way too much, and believe me, I looked for good deals _everywhere._ Plus, it's hard finding legit sources, especially ones where you know you can't be traced. You must know that.'

'I've heard,' Arthur says, but he doesn't agree with him. 'Where did you get your Indeterminate from?'

'PATCO,' Alfred says quietly, momentarily paranoid that the San Junipero staff might somehow be able to hear him talking about the illegal company.

Arthur gives a small, cynical smile. 'Yeah, that makes sense. Scammers, the lot of them. I bet they gave you one hell of a rip off.'

Alfred frowns at him. 'Aren't they, like, the best one around? I mean they're actually trying to get chips legalised and free for everyone.' He may not be the expert at the San Junipero rulebook, but he really did his research with PATCO, reading up on them a great deal. The anonymous online company proved to be his most reliable source, in the end.

'Yet they're still pretty happy bankrupting their customers in the meantime,' Arthur replies.

'Where did you get yours from, then?'

'PATCO, same as you,' Arthur says, and he certainly doesn't look happy about it. 'I got lucky. Someone I know works for them. He got me a Variant for free.'

'What? Seriously?' Alfred is overwhelmed with sudden jealousy, and he finds himself getting irritated too. Why is Arthur complaining so much about PATCO when he didn't have to pay a single dime to these supposed scammers?

Then he shakes his head slightly, and tries to clear his head of all these confused, troubled thoughts. None of this matters. None of it.

'Why are you here, Arthur?' he asks, one more time. 'You're pretty familiar with this place. Not just the rules, but like… the actual experience. You _know_ San Junipero. How long have you been coming here?'

Arthur peers at him suspiciously. 'I fail to see how that's any of your business,' he says shortly.

Alfred groans. 'Come on, dude. So what if I know? We both know other got in here illegally. I won't tell if you don't.'

Arthur shakes his head. 'Just take my advice, alright. Change the clothes and come up with an alibi. Say your dad's with you, but he let you go off on your own while you're here. Actually read the rules, top to bottom. Act like you belong, and you will. You'd be surprised how quickly you can fit in.'

Arthur has said a lot of things that have annoyed Alfred over the last few minutes, but this is the first thing that truly bothers him. 'I don't want to,' he says. 'I don't belong here, and I never will.'

'This place isn't for everyone,' Arthur says unexpectedly, in such a matter of fact tone that Alfred simply gawks at him. People- and by people, he means his classmates, and even his friends- usually either scoff and make fun of him, his family, his beliefs- as if they understand the first thing about growing up in his body, in his house, with his family and his faith- or they will nod and say they understand, and expect gratitude for being so aware, so considerate, so accepting. People are always so condescending, even without meaning to be.

But the way Arthur says it, like the whole idea is so little of a deal that there's no part of it that seems scandalous or admirable or anything- it's new. He actually sounds like he does understand it, completely, and he's making no attempt whatsoever to show that he does, or that he even knows it. In the real world, people don't say it like that. Going to San Junipero is as expected as owning a TV or liking the Beatles. People are either mortified at the idea of not going, or they say it's commendable and brave for him to follow his beliefs so faithfully.

This is surprisingly refreshing, and Alfred starts to wonder if he misjudged Arthur. Sure, the guy was a bit patronising earlier, but he has been incredibly helpful overall, come to think of all. _He didn't have to bring me out here and help me out._ Sure, Alfred's not delusional. He knows the main reason Arthur dragged him out here was so people wouldn't start getting suspicious about some random school kid identifying him just like that, but still. He and Arthur may be practically strangers, but Mattie got along with him. Maybe now he knows Mattie's here, he'll want to see him too.

'Look, just stay out of trouble, alright? Don't get caught,' Arthur says, and Alfred can tell the other boy is ready to leave. 'Remember what I said. The Indeterminate is shit, but it should give you some basic resources. Pick and new outfit and look like you're having fun. No one will give you a second glance. And I'm good with what you said. I won't tell if you don't.'

'Wait,' Alfred says. 'Hold on a sec. Can't we- can't we stick together?'

Arthur doesn't seem like the best company ever, but the truth is, Alfred really doesn't know what kind of company Arthur might be.

Arthur looks uncomfortable now. 'I prefer doing things solo,' he says. 'Just stick to places like the Vortex, and you'll be alright.'

Alfred desperately tries to think. 'But- but- I don't know what to do!' he blurts out.

Arthur beings twisting his fingers, fiddling with a black ring on his right middle one. He takes a few steps back, heading in the direction of the Vortex, slowly turning. 'Look, I don't mean to be rude. But it's almost midnight, and they cut you off then. There's not much else either of us can do tonight. And I just… I just really prefer doing things by myself.'

As if Alfred doesn't already know that. If there are two things that haven't changed about Arthur here, it's his personality and his desire to be alone. With so many other loners at school, they tend to be that way because they struggle to make friends. With Arthur, it's as if he actively tries to avoid people at all costs. When he first transferred, everyone welcomed him with opened arms. He was that small, smart kid with the fancy accent that people were practically drooling over. But he had steered clear of just about everyone.

Except…

'I don't know how to find Mattie,' Alfred says hoarsely, and Arthur pauses. His back is already to Alfred and he's made it several paces towards the end of the alley. But he doesn't take another step, and for a couple of seconds, he remains where he is, silent.

'The chip- the features are so limited. I can't access the database or anything. It's like you said. I only have the bare essentials. I can't search for anyone. I can't even set the pain sliders to zero.' He's rambling and he _hates_ it, but he must be doing something right, because Arthur doesn't move an inch.

'There are so many _people_ here, Arthur,' he continues. 'And they're _dead_. It freaks me out so badly, and I know that's dumb, but it _does._ Everything I know about this place. Everything I believe. It… being here, it just… it feels so _wrong,_ and I feel _wrong_ for coming here. There are literally people I know who would tell me I'm doing something so, so bad for coming here. Fuck, I'm half-believing it. The only reason I'm even remotely tolerating my being here is 'cause I _have_ to find my brother, and tell him so many important things, and then I _need_ to say goodbye. He's… he's my _brother,_ and I miss him. I need to make things right. I need _this_.'

The words become harder and harder to say as his throat becomes more constricted. By the end, he can feel himself shaking. His vision begins to blur and he knows _why,_ and he hates himself more than ever in this moment but he simply can't stop, and… and…

'Hey. Are you going to be okay?'

Alfred blinks away the tears and then reluctantly lifts his hand to wipe them away. When his vision clears, Arthur is a few steps closer and facing him. His thick eyebrows are knitted together in concern- _actual_ concern, not some cynical pity- and Alfred feels more than just embarrassment in that moment. There's hope- small and faint, and maybe a little relief too, because Arthur's listening and _shit,_ Alfred was so afraid he was going to end up alone; and there's still fear, so much _fear_ , gnawing away at the inside- fear that he won't be forgiven, that he won't belong in heaven with Nana and the rest of his family, fear that his parents might walk into his room right now in the real world and find him doing this, even though he knows they're both out late tonight at a dinner party, fear that he'll search through San Junipero for eternity and never find Mattie, and worse, Mattie will spend his time here thinking that he'll never see his family again.

A few drops of rain begin to land on his face. Alfred's at least partly grateful; it'll help wash away the tears, and it's cold and wet and feels so _real._ He can't even remember whether that reassures or disturbs him anymore.

 _Are you going to be okay?_ It's a weird way of putting it. Arthur's not asking if he's currently alright- well, Alfred supposes, Arthur probably thinks a question like that to be stupid and redundant, given the circumstances. _Am I going to be okay?_ He doesn't know. He really doesn't. He supposes that all depends on how this go. On what San Junipero can do for him, what he can do for Mattie, if anything at all.

He might not be able to answer it, at least not yet, but it's the right question. Alfred likes that Arthur says the right things when he really needs it. It's refreshing. It's… it's _right._

'I don't know,' he says finally. 'I hope so.'

Arthur nods. The light drizzle is already helping to flatten his spiky hair and plaster his fringe to his forehead. 'The… the database is hard to crack. PATCO are really working on it. You probably know that already. They've already extracted so many features already, and it's good. But stuff to do with other people- the residents… that's private information. There's confidentiality. We all have to, you know, respect that. Finding people is hard, even for actual residents. Even harder for us, because we have nothing to search up. But like I said. They're working on it. Who knows? Maybe they'll have it figured out soon. We… we just have to hope.'

Alfred blinks. 'Aren't you like… the most pessimistic guy ever, usually?'

Arthur's eyes drill into him. 'Sure, that's what you can take away from it,' he says dryly. 'Or you can listen. I've given you a lot of advice this evening. Please tell me it's not all in vain.'

Alfred laughs quietly. 'Sure, man. I was listening, and I really appreciate it. I swear.'

And then Arthur smiles. A proper, wide smile- not just some small, polite tug of the mouth, which is the most Arthur's ever given him in the past, during those pointless tutoring sessions.

'Thanks, Arthur. I really mean it.' Deep down, Alfred thinks about Arthur's words another way, just for a second. He wonders what they mean to Arthur, whether someone told him them or he thought of them right here and now. Whether he ever needed them for himself.

Somewhere close by, a clock bell rings, announcing the arrival of midnight. Alfred gasps. He knows it had been drawing close to midnight, but now he truly is out of time. He should have come earlier. He shouldn't have waited so long after his parents left, just to make sure they weren't spontaneously coming back. He should have taken all the time he could get.

Arthur looks disappointed too, and he glances back at the Vortex wistfully. Alfred feels a little bad for depriving Arthur of a little extra time enjoying the evening, because he sure did look like he was in there. But he'll be coming back, right? Just as Alfred intends to, no matter how difficult it is to accept what he's doing. He'll come back as many times as a he can, and spend as long as it takes. He'll find Mattie eventually.

The clock is on the seventh chime when Arthur says, 'I'll help you find Matthew.'

Alfred gapes. 'What?'

'Matthew. I'll help you find him.' Arthur folds his arms again. 'You're going to need all the help you can get.'

The eight chime rings. 'You're serious?' Alfred says, hardly daring to breathe.

Arthur looks at his feet, the way he does at school when anyone tries talking to him- his classic, socially inept loner stance. 'Yeah. Sure. You're just going to mess up without me. I mean honestly. Tonight could have been a complete disaster.'

The ninth chime comes. Alfred tries not to take offence. This is just what Arthur does, he's sure. He doesn't do feelings, or anything chummy. If he wants to keep that sort of thing at an arm's length, that's fine. Who is Alfred to complain in this moment? Arthur's going to _help_ him.

'But you need to listen to me. Do what I say when the situation calls. Do you understand?' Arthur asks, and Alfred nods.

'You can be in charge, man. You obviously know this place better than I do.'

'And another more thing,' Arthur says. 'You never come to me. I'll find you.'

Alfred opens his mouth but his question are drowned out by the tenth chime. 'Why?' he repeats, once the noise is gone.

Arthur shakes his head. 'Just go with it. Please. That applies everywhere.'

Alfred wants to ask more, but Arthur looks determined about not discussing it anymore. 'Okay,' he agrees. 'But how are you gonna find me? I won't even know what eras I'll be arriving in?'

Arthur's eyes flicker over to the Vortex once more as the eleventh chime arrives. 'It's pretty much its own dimension, connected to every plane. I told you, the Vortex is in every era.' He looks back at Alfred again and hesitates, mouth hanging open slightly, like he isn't sure whether he should speak or not. Finally, he makes his mind up.

'Last thing,' he murmurs. 'Please don't make me regret this.'

The clock chimes twelve before Alfred can reply, and he is lurched into darkness.

* * *

 **My personal blog, through which to yell at me: rezeren . tumblr . com**

 **My Hetalia blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com**

 **The song featured in the story is _I Feel Love_ by Donna Summer. I needed some classic 70s or 80s electronic disco song and this one is absolutely perfect. Nothing else could fit the exact vibe I was trying to go for with Alfred entering the Vortex for the first time.**

 **Now that I'm actually typing this out, I'm feeling pretty nervous about posting it. I was bursting with confidence while writing it, and finally updating _Ash Song_ got me really pumped. I was gonna post it like directly after I updated Ash Song, but I'd pulled an all-nighter and was absolutely exhausted, and it seemed like a pretty dumb time to post it, so I've delayed it by a few hours, like a responsible person lmao. Plus, you know, new fic nerves. It has been a very long time since I posted a new _Hetalia_ fic.**

 **Anyway, I hope you guys liked it. I've drawn fanart for it already, months and months ago (I've been planning this for a while) which you can find under the _san juniero au_ tag. Or the _an echo of eternity_ tag, though that one's way more recent. It took me aeons to finally think of a name for this story.**

 **So uh... tell me if you liked it? Please?**

 **Thanks for reading, and remember to review!**


	2. The Wrong World

**This took longer than I thought it would, but here we are!**

 **I'm a dick to England in every story involving him, just as a general rule, so in this one I projected my migraines onto the poor sucker. Not to mention mental health issues, but I don't touch on that too much. I promise I'll give appropriate warnings at the beginnings of each chapters if there's anything too heavy.**

 **Anyway, thank you very much for the response to last chapter! I'm quite glad I posted this story now lmao.**

 **Allons-y!**

* * *

 **Two**

 **The Wrong World**

Light vibrations and a faint hum drill softly through his dreams, snapping him awake far less gently than they should. He groans and rolls over under his covers, before panic sets in and he stomach does a somersault. Where is it? Is this its first round?

'Shit,' Arthur mutters ignoring the wave of dizziness from a head rush as he sits up and begins ruffling through the sheets, trying to find his phone. The damn alarm is only on vibrate- his idea, but certainly not by _choice_ \- which means he sleeps through it far more than he was planning to when he came up with the stupid plan. He has even taken to holding his phone at night, so it would buzz right up against his skin in the morning, but somehow the damn thing always manages to end up on the floor or at the bottom of his bed. Or even under the pillow that one time. He grits his teeth as his fingers brush against the phone, and he is mortified to find that this is in fact its _third_ round.

 _God fucking dammit-_

A few feet away, a handle bends downwards and the door creaks open quietly. Arthur squints into the dim and glares when he spots Peter's face through the crack.

 _Why didn't you wake me?_ he signs angrily.

Peter sticks his tongue out, smirking. 'I'm doing it now,' he whispers.

Arthur shakes his head with a derisive snort, making a big show of pretending to zip his lips. His brother rolls his eyes and disappears from the gap, and Arthur can faintly hear him skipping off down the hallway.

He can barely remember being as hyperactive in the morning as Peter is- after all, failing the alarm clock, he always has his little brother to rely on to wake him up.

He just wishes Peter would be quieter.

He only has about ten minutes to get ready before he and Peter must leave, and he spends at least half that time ensuring that he did successfully hide the PATCO equipment last night once he had finished using it. The likelihood of anyone, even Peter, going through his bedroom is slim- God, he really could keep absolutely _anything_ in here and probably get away with it- but he has to make certain. His paranoia may not be as great as it was when he first started visiting San Junipero, but he is still keenly aware of the risks.

And the stakes are certainly higher now, he remembers with another groan. _Fuck. Fuck it all._

He could have just said no. He liked Matthew, certainly, but… he really could have said no. Taken a step back, not have gotten involved. Hell, hadn't he almost managed to walk away? At least until Alfred Williams-Jones had gone and started crying. Then he'd essentially been doomed. God. He curses again. What the hell has he gotten himself into?

Arthur barely has enough time to wash his face, pull on a jumper, a pair of jeans and a jacket and then snatch some money off his desk before he is ushering Peter out of the house. Once on the path, his brother mockingly unzips his lips and smirks at Arthur.

'I win,' he says.

'The hell you do,' Arthur retorts. 'You spoke.'

'So did you. I heard you swearing afterwards. And before. That's twice, so I win.'

Damn this kid's hearing. Arthur sighs and digs into his pocket for some spare change. If Peter is the quieter of the two in the morning, he gets extra money for the corner store where they collect their breakfast. Arthur isn't a huge fan of wasting his savings every day, but the alternative is getting up even earlier to make breakfast for the two of them. Not to mention the fact that that the toaster is broken beyond repair and the milk is almost always out of date.

'Maybe Dad should play as well,' Peter muses, grinning as he snatches the money out of Arthur's hand. 'He makes way more noise than us. We'd be rich.'

Arthur offers a weak smile and doesn't reply. He's certain Peter knows why they have to be silent in the morning, but as long as he keeps presenting it as a game for his little brother, Peter will probably continue treating it as such.

'Don't get sweets,' Arthur tells him as they're embraced by a warm gush of air from opening the shop door.

'My money, my pick,' Peter says cheekily. He races off down the snacks aisle and leaves Arthur standing in the doorway. The elder brother heads over to the cold drinks, knowing full well that he won't have enough energy to make it through the morning, let alone the whole day. He's noticed with his Variant Chip that it really can take a toll on the user. Arthur is no stranger to migraines, thankfully, so the resulting minor headaches he has been experiencing aren't too hard to deal with. Still, it would be nice if he could get his hands on that anaesthetic cream they give to the elderly when they visit San Junipero…

His thoughts are interrupted by his phone buzzing once again, this time from a text. He pulls it out and stares at the message on the screen in confusion for a few moments.

 _ **You sure? I can pick you and Pete up from school if you like.**_

Oh, shit. That's right. Arthur must have sent a text last night, once he'd gotten back from San Junipero and before he passed out. Reaching into the refrigerated shelf for an energy drink with one hand absentmindedly, Arthur thinks through his response carefully before beginning to type.

 _ **We'll walk.**_

The air outside feels more freezing than it did when they first left the house, although Arthur doesn't find that surprising in the slightest. The corner shop always has the heating on this time of year, while his home… generally isn't much better than the outside temperature. Peter moans about the chill the second they step back out again, tugging at the ends of his scarf fiercely until Arthur tells him he'll only strangle himself doing that.

'It's too cold,' Peter complains, shaking his arms about in an effort to warm them. Arthur scoffs lightly. His brother is too much of a summer child- in every sense of the term, he adds privately, smiling. Peter is very much like how Arthur once was, back in Brighton during those long summers, with days that couldn't even be deterred by the usual dreary clouds. But Peter was four when they moved to London, and eight when they came to the US. He would have been too young to remember the days on the beach if they'd even still been going down to it regularly after he was born.

Nevertheless, Peter's absolutely rubbish with the cold. At the first sign of winter, he immediately dons coats, scarfs and gloves at every opportunity. Admittedly, Arthur does feel quite cold with only his jacket to keep him warm, but he isn't about to let anyone know that.

Arthur takes a deep breath. He won't mention giving up the offer of a lift, either. Peter will just be fed up, and this day is certainly going to be stressful enough already.

He doesn't need to look into the future to know that.

* * *

The first few periods go by in relative smoothness, by Monday morning standards. His poetry module almost proves to be an issue when he suddenly remembers about ten minutes into it that he completely forgot to read the set texts for this week, but is relieved when the teacher is too distracted with the kids who failed last week's assignment to bother to check. His phone doesn't go off once, which isn't exactly a big shocker. He doesn't have anyone he actually keeps in regular contact with, other than the contacts he keeps out of necessity. While he knows his classmates might find it sad that he has no friends to text, Arthur quite enjoys it. Dealing with most texts is quite the hassle in his experience, and he often finds he doesn't have the energy to deal with them. Not to mention, he can do without the social life. Everything's just a little too chaotic already without one of those.

It isn't until lunchtime that something out of the ordinary occurs. Arthur is adding food to his tray, ready to pretend to take it outside to eat (when in actuality he has the perfect little corner in the library attic where he can go mostly undetected- and he has gotten very good at quickly barrelling food into his bag and hiding himself if anyone does come his way) when he spots what is probably the second to last person he wants to see. Maybe third if he's being generous. He isn't.

Alfred Williams-Jones is headed straight in his direction with his own empty tray, an entirely nonchalant look on his face. He's on his own, so there's at least one small blessing, but Arthur can easily make out his friends sitting at their usual table, and any one of them could turn and wonder exactly what the hell Alfred is doing.

'Hey, Arthur,' Alfred says, smiling. He begins piling some ham sandwiches onto his tray.

'What?' Arthur says bluntly, deciding there's no point bothering with pleasantries. An uneasy tingling is spreading over his skin, and he grits his teeth in frustration, hoping it doesn't show. Judging by just how careless Alfred was in San Junipero itself, God only knows how he's going to behave in a crowded school cafeteria.

Alfred looks exasperated, although he's still smiling. He's a complete fool, Arthur decides.

'Once again, nice to see you too,' he says, and Arthur's mind immediately flashes to the night before, where those stupid, friendly words were all this numbskull could come up with.

All of this is stupid in itself, but Arthur is more than simply miffed by that. After everything he'd told his classmate last night, he had hoped at least _something,_ maybe even his parting words (which should be the freshest thing in this guy's memory, he thinks angrily) would have sunken in.

'What part of never come to me did you not understand?' he says very lowly, under his breath.

Alfred blinks. 'What? But I- I thought you meant like… in the other place.'

'I said _everywhere,'_ Arthur hisses, letting his eyes dart about. No one is looking at them from what he can see, but he has his back to the main bulk of the cafeteria and he's almost afraid to look.

Alfred is frowning now. 'What's the big deal? It's just school.'

Arthur takes a deep breath, and tries to ignore the churning feeling inside him. 'We don't talk normally.'

'What, and you think people will notice? No one's gonna care, Arthur.'

He's probably right, but Arthur is far from the type to take any chances. 'Call me paranoid all you like,' he hisses. 'If you want to risk getting caught, that's fine. I was under the impression you had quite a lot to lose. But hey, what do I know?'

Alfred glares at him. 'Okay, okay, fine. Jeez. Just wanted to thank you again is all. And ask when we're doing it next-'

Arthur angrily shoves a juice box onto his tray and stomps off towards the doors, praying Alfred won't follow him. All he asked- _all he fucking asked-_ was that Alfred listened to him, and respected his conditions. Deep down, he knows he's getting far too worked up about this, but this is far from what he had in mind. All he wants is peace and quiet, and above all, safety. And Alfred could ruin all three.

His heart is pounding just a little too fast for his liking, and Arthur knows the next place he _should_ go is the sick bay. It's not as if they'll be out of his prescription, seeing as he has only ever gone for it twice before- and on both occasions, purely to prove to them that there was even an issue. The rest of the time, he just breaks into his emergency batch of diazepam at the bottom of his pencil case. Students aren't allowed to carry any kind of drugs around school with them, medical or otherwise. Then again, students aren't supposed to sneak food into the library at lunchtimes or sneak off school grounds during gym lessons either. And students most certainly aren't supposed to be hacking into San Junipero in their spare time, but hey? No one is.

He's halfway up the steps to the staff only back entrance to the library, under the cover of the trees between the building and the playing field, when he hears someone else's footsteps ascending too.

Truthfully, it is somewhat of a relief that it is just Alfred. He'd hate for his secret lunch spot to be ruined by a teacher catching him in the act.

'Where are you even going?' Alfred asks, and even from ten or so feet away Arthur can see the skeptical raise of his classmate's eyebrow.

'Why are you still following me?' Arthur demands.

'Come on, we've got total privacy out here. Can we talk now?'

Arthur sighs. It's not as if he can go in the damn attic now anyway. If Alfred finds out that the maintenance staff leave the door open from when they start before school to around six in the evening, he'll probably come barging in whenever he likes.

Arthur instead takes a seat on the steps, and Alfred rushes up quickly to sit beside him, looking far too enthusiastic for Arthur's liking. Alfred's always got that look about him- like an overactive puppy on steroids, wanting in on everyone's business. He'd be friends with the whole damn school if he could.

Precisely why, after two weeks of that absolutely pointless mentoring when Arthur first started, he avoided Alfred and those like him like the plague.

'I take it that's a yes?' Alfred says, grinning.

'Just get on with it,' Arthur snaps. 'What do you want to talk about?'

'Wanna discuss that weird ass rule of yours, for a start. What if I need to talk, like ASAP? No offence, Arthur, but waiting for you to come find me would be like waiting for the next _Game of Thrones_ book.'

 _'A Song of Ice and Fire,'_ Arthur says automatically, although he doesn't deny Alfred's point. It is kind of a fair assessment.

'Whatever. My point is, as you're so big on pointing it out, I'm super new to this. What if there are things I need to ask, before I go there next time? I don't have your number or anything.'

 _And you're not getting it,_ Arthur thinks moodily, but even he is too civil to actually say it. 'Well, you want to learn what not to do? Don't even _think_ about texting about this sort of thing. If the police get wind of anything, they'll search your phone records. Just pretend it's all about drugs or something. You wouldn't just haphazardly text your dealer-'

'Loads of people do. Although, we could just get those cheap flip phones, like in the movies.' Alfred seems far too amused at the thought. 'Oh wow. I think I'd actually prefer it if people thought I was buying weed or something. My parents would probably take that better than the truth.'

Arthur has nothing to say to that. His face is heating up a little, although certainly not from embarrassment. _Shame_ would be a better assessment. Not for the first time, he seriously reconsiders his own nature. Seriously thinks about what that councillor back home in his last school told him, about taming his hostility, his coldness towards his peers, his aggression. About it all being a problem. About it being _wrong._

But it isn't wrong for him. It shouldn't have to be.

So he shuts his mouth and doesn't say anything. Better to remain silent than to be as spiteful as ever. If he could be nice last night, right in the middle of panicking greatly at having been caught in the Ghost Town, he can at least act like an actual human being while Alfred talks about his family.

The guilt lets him know he still can.

'They were at this dinner party last night. A friend from church had a get together or something,' Alfred explains. 'They go to 'em quite a lot, actually. My dad's big on being part of stuff. Community spirit and all that. Man, Mattie and I used to hate going. We'd sit at the table with all the grownups and eat with them and everything, and it sorta felt like we were all grown up too. But _man_ were those things boring. Anyway. That's where they were last night. I stopped having to go with them like two years ago. I figured it was as good a night as any to… you know. Try _you-know-where_ out for the first time.'

Arthur shifts restlessly. 'Fair enough. I wouldn't recommend Sunday nights though. I'm really starting to realise this myself. Nights with school the next day are a bad idea.'

'My head felt all weird this morning,' Alfred admits, touching one of his temples lightly. 'It ached a bit. Is it meant to do that?'

'Probably. I get migraines, and the Chip doesn't help. We don't exactly have the anaesthetic salve they give the old people. Even PATCO doesn't bother with that.'

 _Too comfy,_ his brain reminds him. _Too familiar. Cut it out now._

'Anyway,' he says briskly, almost wincing at how obnoxious he makes the mood change sound. 'I'm sure I can handle a task a little quicker than George R R Martin, at the very least. We have lunch to eat. In our respective spots.'

'No one's gonna notice I'm gone, Arthur,' Alfred says, and he really is starting to sound annoyed now. Arthur feels strangely proud that not once, but twice has he managed to shatter Alfred's perpetual cheerful attitude. Far more ashamed about it, certainly- _the guy just lost his brother, you insensitive fuck-_ but a little bit of pride remains.

Arthur has the ability to piss off even the most optimistic of individuals. It's like a superpower. A shit one, but it has its uses. It protects him, and that alone should be enough.

'I don't always sit with them now, anyway,' Alfred says. 'Sometimes they say stuff, and I know they're tryna be nice, but they do it all wrong. Whatever. They probably think I'm just in the bathroom crying or some shit. That's what people do.'

In crappy Hollywood high school rom coms, maybe. Arthur has had plenty of breakdowns in this shit hole of a school and not a single one has he risked having in the very public, constantly occupied bathrooms.

'I like to be alone,' he says. That's why anywhere here but the library attic will never be any good. Why his food remains untouched, just waiting on his lap. Alfred shouldn't be here. No one should be, not even him.

'Yeah. Ain't that the truth,' Alfred says, his voice peculiarly cold. He grabs his food and gets to his feet. 'I'll leave you to it then. And just wait, I guess. No problem.'

Arthur himself is feeling a little cold now. 'Right,' he says, because what the hell else is there he can say that won't just fuck up his thought pattern or this conversation anymore?

Alfred starts heading down the steps, then hesitates after a couple of seconds. 'I don't know why you're like this, you know. Can you at least cut me some slack on that front? I have no idea what I'm actually doing wrong, apart from literally being here.'

 _Well, there you go. There's your answer, right there. It's not exactly hiding._ God, if only his head could shut the fuck up.

'I just want to be alone,' he says, practicing _I'm sorry_ in his head. It doesn't sound right. For all his manners around adults and whatnot, it just wouldn't sound natural. And it might help mend bridges that should be left as rubble.

'Yeah. I got that,' Alfred says, and then he is gone.

Arthur waits a little while, staring at nothing in particular while ice begins to settle at the bottom of his empty stomach, before he's certain the coast is clear. He gathers up his things and pelts into the library like it's some stupid game of hide and seek- just like at the beach, before being a certified grade A arsehole was his chosen path and he didn't need to hide in all the other ways he does now. The dunes were always the best places to pick, and the massive boulders with their narrow tunnels and caves between them and their little rock pools far below. He could have hidden there forever when he was very little. It was the safest place in the world. No adult, no near adult, could ever have fit through those gaps.

But another child could.

* * *

 _I thought about writing a guide to it once- like the Arsehole Manifesto or something like that. Remember when I found those D &D stat sheets under Dylan's bed, back when I shared a room with him? I made us play for hours, and neither of us actually knew what the fuck we were doing. So I made my own guide. I made up our own little version of it, that ended up becoming that treasure hunt on Luci's birthday. I was so proud of that. Even Dad played. Do you remember the bonfire at the end? With the marshmallows and all that candyfloss from the beach fair?_

 _Anyway. Being a dick._

 _There was that time in Year 2 where I got sent out of class for drawing on the tables, mostly 'cause I thought they looked too boring without something on them, besides all the gum and glue and whatever else we used to stick under them. But the tops were too clean. I don't think you got what I was trying to say when I explained it to you, but you liked the part about Mrs Price being a witch. I really got it into my head that I'd make a better teacher than her. I always liked telling people stuff anyway, back before the first proper 'shut up' came along and I stopped. I'd look at at the server encyclopedias in your dad's study for hours and learn everything I could about the animals in them. So I figured I'd be good at being a teacher. I don't actually want to be, but could you picture it? Me, giving a lecture at some college, opening up a PowerPoint presentation to reveal_ THE ARSEHOLE MANIFESTO _in bold, capital letters. My life's work, thus far._

 _I wonder if you might also have had a life's work. If so, if only it_ had _lasted thus far. Maybe I should investigate. I don't know. Maybe I'll ask you when I see you._

 _My project started when I was about twelve, I think. I was already getting into so much shit with everyone at school. I thought, why not just own up to it? Make it my own choice. Solidify my image._

 _God, I hated the move. But at least here, no one knew me before. Well, almost no one._

 _But you never said anything to anyone. And you're not really saying anything now, are you?_

* * *

The air outside is warmer by three-thirty, and yet Peter still complains about it when Arthur shows up at the front of his elementary to sign him out. At this point, Arthur is certain it's all for show. Peter's just a lazy little tyke who doesn't want to walk home, but is perfectly happy playing outside with his friends at pick up time.

'Here's a crazy idea,' Arthur says. 'Why not save the money you leech off me every other morning so you can can pay for bus fair?'

Peter scowls. 'Because it's for candy.'

'Sweets.'

'Whatever, it's the same thing. No one calls 'em sweets.'

'They do back home.' They only came here two years ago, but you'd think Peter has been here his whole life, the way he adapted so quickly. Only his accent still gives him away, and even that's at risk. Arthur know first hand how easily childrens' accents can change in the right circumstances. He was too little to remember Alastair's original accent, whatever the hell it was, but Mum had always sworn he hadn't sounded Scottish _before_ he went to that boarding school in Glasgow. And Arthur speaks with Dylan on the phone _just_ infrequently enough to notice the Welsh tint sweeping in more and more with each call. He sounds just like his dad, Mum's first husband Ryan. And Patrick always took after Mum, from what Arthur can remember of Mum's voice.

They've got some serious variety in the family, if you can call strictly British and Irish accents a proper variety. Peter's new found Americanisms might just be the outlier, especially if his accent really does change.

'Where are we going?' Peter asks eventually, once he's noticed they haven't turned off down their usual route.

'Patrick's.' Their older brother, who has been in the US for four months now, is already one of Peter's favourite people. He's even started calling Patrick his favourite brother when Arthur doesn't let him have his way. Of course he would, though. Patrick's just one of the three older siblings Peter had never even met properly before, brothers he'd idealised the idea of from afar. And when one of them suddenly showed up with a bunch of souvenirs from back home and a brand new Xbox- well. Yeah. That really went over well with Peter.

Arthur isn't so easily charmed.

Peter whoops in delight, and Arthur tries not to let it get to him. So what if he _knows_ Peter? So what he's the one who's actually been around, to shield and basically take care of the kid? So what if he remembers that Peter has a peanut allergy, or that his favourite Disney movie is _Moana_ , or that he was only two away from full marks on his last spelling bee? So. Fucking. What.

Patrick's not all that at all as far as Arthur is concerned, but a ten-year-old kid isn't exactly going to give a shit, is he?

Right on cue, their brother rings. It had only taken two weeks of Patrick being in the States for Arthur to passive aggressively set his specific ringtone to Lily Allen's _Fuck You,_ but that had come to an end pretty quickly when Dad heard it.

'Yeah?' Arthur answers it reluctantly.

 _'Just checking yeh were still coming. Honestly, I don't mind coming to pick yeh both up-'_

'We're almost there,' Arthur says. 'Make sure the door's unlocked.' He ends the call.

'You're really mean to him,' Peter remarks.

'I'm mean to everyone,' Arthur says. _Everyone but you._

He hopes that's true.

* * *

Sure enough, the little house Patrick is renting on the outskirts of town is open.

 _House_ really doesn't seem like the right word. It's a bungalow for a start, although it looks more like a cabin than anything. Not the shoddy kind, though- Patrick apparently pays good money for this place, and it really can be seen the longer it's looked at. There are plenty of plant pots filled with flowers on the smooth steps and sculpted marble statues of dogs at the front, and no matter how small the little building may seem at first glance, that isn't taking into account the well-sized garden at the back, nor the nicely furnished shed within that is almost as big as the house. It is essentially an on-suite, and Patrick uses it as his office. For while his day job is exclusively working as a salesperson for the US branch of a UK gaming company, it's far from his main trade.

His day job may have gotten Peter that Xbox, but Arthur's interests lie only in Patrick's nightly activities. Of course, Patrick himself would still call it a salesperson profession, but Arthur is comfortable with the far more simplistic way of referring to it.

 _A Chip dealer,_ Arthur had put it when he found out.

 _A PATCO employee,_ was what Patrick had to say in response.

 _A PATCO lackey,_ Arthur had decided.

A PATCO lackey with the answer to what he needed. Who just happened to be able to spare him the costs, on account of him being family.

Even if he is one of them. One of the brothers who entirely fucked off the radar for ten years while Arthur and Peter were left with their dad.

'Welcome to my humble abode,' Patrick says as he opens the front door, in the poshest, most uptight fake English accent he can muster. He gives a deep bow and Peter giggles.

Arthur rolls his eyes. 'You going to let us in or what?' In truth, he was expecting the house to be deserted, and for Patrick to be in the shed like usual. There's a lot less fuss when he can just quietly let himself in.

Patrick doesn't let the accent drop. 'But of course, my good sir.' He beckons dramatically. 'Right this way, right this way.'

Peter races in happily, making a beeline for the living room where he can watch TV as loud as he likes. Back home, he and Arthur don't have that same luxury.

Arthur steps inside at a much slower pace, refusing to make eye contact with Patrick. He peeks his head round the living room door to check that Peter's settled, before he and Patrick make their way through the thin hallway corridor to the back of the house and out into the garden.

Without Peter present, Patrick lets his ridiculous act drop. 'Yeh know, for someone who texted _me_ asking for this meetup, yeh sure do act like yeh were made to come here.'

Arthur says nothing, because it's uncomfortably true. He is hypothetically considering dedicating a chapter or even a whole section of _The Arsehole Manifesto_ to this exact issue. _The Hypocrite Conundrum._ His biggest everyday problem.

Patrick pushes open the door to the shed and beckons Arthur inside. One thing this little on-suite doesn't have is its own heating, hence a little radiator on wheels that sits near Patrick's death. The result in the winter, as Arthur is gradually coming to learn, is that the shed is either freezing cold or, depending on how long Patrick's been in here during the day, completely boiling. Neither are preferable, and today it's the former.

Once seated, Patrick on a swivel chair behind his desk and Arthur on a plastic garden chair, Patrick wastes no time getting to the point.

'Yeh said yeh had a problem with yer Chip?'

'Yeah. I lost it.'

Patrick stares at him. 'Yeh gotta be joking. Please tell me yeh're _joking_.'

'You have loads of spares and you said they can break during shipments all the time. You said PATCO wouldn't care if one went missing from the batch, and if they did you could just say it was broken. What's one more Chip, anyway?'

'These things don't just grow on trees, Arthur! How the hell did yeh lose it? Yeh went on and on about how careful yeh'd be with it, that I could trust yeh. Jesus…' Patrick leans heavily on the desk, raking his fingers through locks of red hair. 'No. Absolutely not. For all the shit yeh were preaching about how bad yeh think PATCO is, yeh sure do think yeh can just leech off us when yeh feel like it.'

Arthur's face burns. _The Hypocrite Conundrum_ is certainly looking to be more of a section than a mere lousy chapter. 'We had a deal.'

'Yeah. Me and yeh. Had nothing to do with the company. And that was before yeh lost expensive equipment,' Patrick says stonily. 'Not to mention, it's private. God, what if someone finds the damn thing, Arthur? Do yeh realise what trouble yeh could cause PATCO?'

'No one will find it. I lost it at home.'

'So keep bloody searching for it then.'

Arthur's stomach is churning. 'What do you want, money? I'll fucking pay.' _Please say no, please say no,_ he thinks to himself, while another voice in his head tells him scathingly that he's a freeloader, that he's selfish, that he's too self-indulgent to do something like this for someone else. _I barely know him,_ he protests weakly, as guilty as he feels. _I don't even like him, not really. I just feel sorry for him._

Just not enough for this. He couldn't- _wouldn't_ \- even pay for himself, so how and why the fuck would he do it for someone who's practically a stranger?

His brain can make him feel shitty about it as much as it wants, but it won't change anything. Arthur knows most people would feel the same- that's one small comfort at least- and besides, it's not as if he could actually afford it anyway. It's the worst bluff in existence, and Patrick knows it.

'Yeh couldn't, even if yeh were actually willing to,' Patrick mutters after a long pause. 'Look, Art, it's probably-'

'Don't call me that.'

'- it's probably best to call it a day anyway. It's not healthy to keep going back there-'

Arthur begins to laugh, watching his brother's shocked face scathingly as he does so. 'Now _you're_ fucking joking,' he says. 'You literally make a living out of encouraging people to go to San Junipero but you're telling me you think it's _unhealthy?'_

'It's unhealthy to stick with it. These services are for people to go once or twice at the most, ideally. It's for goodbyes. Not for fun little trips every weekend.'

Arthur's throat is stinging from the laughter, and from the angry lump beginning to form. 'That's not fair,' he says. 'I'm not done there. What, do you think I'm just messing around when I go there?'

'Well, considering how much time I've got your Chip registered in that Vortexnightclub-'

'Oh, God forbid I find a safe space in a whole other world that I can actually tolerate. And you can cut that spying on me shit right out.' Arthur cannot quite explain the appeal of the Vortex; he, like so many others, had simply wandered into its path on his first visit and had felt the pull. The strange variety of the music and the colourful lights that were somehow soothing instead of bright, had fully enchanted him. It had been like how he had envisioned the nightclubs when he was younger, and yet far more than he could have imagined during all those games as a child. And aside from all that, aside from the familiarity of an old calling and the wonder of the real spectacle, he had enjoyed something else immensely- no matter how loud the music or the people were, the usual headache never came. He had set his pain sliders to zero, naturally, so migraines had suddenly felt like a thing of the past.

Until he woke up in the real world, with the Chip throbbing painfully against his temple.

Patrick frowns at him. 'I have to keep an eye on yeh. Yeh're still a kid, and yeh're my brother.'

'Shit, really? That explains how you're so good at annoying the shit out of me, I guess. Should have seen that coming.'

'Arthur.' Patrick grits his teeth, staring down at his desk and deep in thought. 'I'm trying to keep yeh safe. Yeh wouldn't believe how badly this sort of thing can fuck up the living. And I know yeh're not finished, but yeh have to think about how this might be affecting yer health, alright- mental and physical. Yeh've got those migraines to worry about, and-'

'Wouldn't be an issue,' Arthur says stonily, the lump building up with pressure in his throat. 'If I had access to the database.'

Patrick winces. 'Yeh know I can't get yeh one of those Chips. Fuck, I couldn't get one of those for yeh _legally._ They're not officially licensed in half the countries round the world, and it would be cheaper getting a mansion in the other half. Christ- look-' He takes a deep breath. 'I'm gonna figure this out, alright. I'll get yeh a new Chip, but there are conditions with this one.'

'I already do Saturdays, what more do you want from me?' Arthur demands, while every part of him screams to shut up, that he is finally getting somewhere and he's going to _fucking ruin it-_

'Yeh could visit on Sundays as well,' Patrick says with a weak smile. 'I bet Peter would wanna spend Saturday nights here. Yeh could as well. We could watch movies. Or go out and do stuff. I don't know.' He leans back in his chair and rubs his face tiredly with one hand. 'But that's not what I meant. I'm giving yeh restrictions on the Chip.'

'What?' Arthur's heart skips a beat. He can barely breathe. 'No. No, no, no. I need a Variant, Patrick. I can't- I can't have an Indeterminate.' Fucking hell, the whole reason he came here was to _replace_ an Indeterminate.

'Yeh're not gonna,' Patrick says, and Arthur feels a brief spell of relief wash over him. 'What I mean is… the rules are stricter now, okay? I wanna make one thing perfectly clear now, and yeh can hate me for it all yeh like but I'm not changing my mind: yeh're visiting indefinitely. I should never have let yeh think yeh could do that to begin with-'

'I'm not _going_ to,' Arthur says hotly. 'I'm just keeping it up 'til I'm done-'

'Or until I say so,' Patrick says.

'Fuck no. What?'

'Five more visits, then yeh call it quits. If yeh can't do it by then, Arthur, then I'm afraid-'

'No.' And now, it really is more than just a lump in his throat. Arthur's eyes are burning. 'You can't do that. That's not fair. You don't just get to decide that. I need this.'

'Do yeh have any idea what yeh sound like right now?' Patrick asks. 'An addict. And I see plenty of those.'

Arthur's voice grows higher. 'I didn't have to keep coming back,' he says, trembling, 'if I'd had the right fucking Chip. It's not _fair.'_

He wonders momentarily if Alfred will say the same when he tells him. Right now, caught up in his own act, it's easy to pretend this is going to affect him. Fuck, it probably will if Patrick keeps monitoring him. Christ.

'Ten,' he begs quickly. Alfred- hell, _anyone-_ wouldsurely do the same. 'Ten more. Please.'

'I can't risk that with yeh,' Patrick says heavily. 'Not with how far yeh've come already. I'm trying to do this for yer own good, Artie-'

'Don't fucking _call me that.'_ Arthur gets to his feet, heart pounding and his voice hysterical. God, even knowing the Chip won't be his still fucking hurts. Because Patrick will want to implement this decision no matter what. Because he can probably do it so _easily._

Because for all the good trying desperately not to do one cruel thing to add to the manifesto, he'll still end up letting someone down.

 _I am never, ever going to try being nice again,_ he thinks, then turns when the tears in his eyes reach a breaking point and one of them spills. He will _not_ let Patrick see this.

'Go fuck yourself,' he finds himself saying. Alfred will just have to put up with his Indeterminate for now. Hell, it's not as if he was expecting anything from Arthur anyway. The latter ensured that.

'Arthur-' Patrick tries. 'Mate, listen- I know this seems cruel, but I'm trying to help yeh. If yeh wait a few years, we might have better access to the resources and yeh can try again. Maybe by then, free Chips will be legalised.'

Arthur slings his satchel over his shoulders and heads over to the door, refusing to look back. 'That's horseshit and you know it. I wasn't fucking up. I was being careful.'

'Yeh lost yer Chip.'

 _No, I fucking didn't._ 'I wasn't bothering anyone in there. I wasn't planning on sticking around. Not 'til I'm dead. And you're taking it away.'

'I want to keep yeh safe,' Patrick says quietly.

Arthur spins around now, confident he's blinked away the tears. 'I'm far safer in San Junipero than the real world, and you Goddamn know it.'

A heavy silence falls between them. Patrick looks far from angry, or even sympathetic. He just looks sad, like the weight of Arthur's words are bearing down on him. His gaze falls to the floor, and he breathes in deeply several times.

'We're trying to fix that for yeh,' he says eventually. 'I said we would.'

'I don't need you to fix anything,' Arthur snaps. 'Not for me.'

'Al's looking into it. His lawyer says-'

'Good for him. I'm leaving.' He turns back to the door. 'Try not to ruin it for Peter.'

'Arthur, wait.' Behind him, he hears Patrick rummaging around in one of his desk drawers. Arthur twists his head to see his brother pulling out a thin cardboard box, marked as _FRAGILE_ in red letters. It's identical to the one Patrick gave him a few weeks ago- like any ordinary delivery package with delicate contents from the outside, designed to look official and smart so as not to arouse suspicion. But inside, sealed in bubble wrap and plastic bags is the setup gear and, most importantly, the Chip. Patrick had explained the careful delivery procedure in idle conversation- about how they have specialist employees distributing ordinary packages from global companies, with the Chips hidden away amongst all the other deliveries, how in some eastern countries, PATCO already have their own private services, complete with delivery trucks- and local authorities tend to turn a blind eye in favour of more serious crime. But in America, the stakes are much higher. Not that Arthur had had to worry about that- there had been no special delivery for him, just Patrick handing him a small package right in this very shed.

'Here,' Patrick says, resigned. He holds it out.

Arthur blinks, then scowls. 'I'm not taking your deal,' he says. 'I thought I made that abundantly clear.'

'Ten,' Patrick sighs. 'Yeh get ten more times, if yeh can promise that's it. I'm going any higher than that.'

Ten more times. Arthur takes a deep breath as the words sink in. Ten more times to break the law, to visit the Ghost Town and walk among the dead. Ten more times to run away into a world he dreamed of as a child, an idea that was a source of comfort until it was ripped away, a place he relished far more than he expected to.

Ten more times to make things right.

'Okay,' Arthur hears himself saying. His voice sounds hoarse. 'Okay. Yeah. Fine.'

'And then yeh gotta give it back to me,' Patrick says. 'Understood?'

Arthur nods mutely and trudges back over to Patrick's desk. He takes the package gingerly and tucks it under his arm. 'Thank you,' he murmurs.

Patrick moves around the desk and places a hand on Arthur's shoulder. 'This is for the best, Art. This will help you down the road, I promise. It'll all work out in the end.'

'Yeah,' Arthur says again. The touch sends chills down his spine.

* * *

Alfred isn't in the cafeteria on Tuesday afternoon.

His friends, a selection of kids from the drama club, the football team and a few classmates, all sit in their usual spots and chat away animatedly like they would do any other day, but Alfred's seat is empty. Arthur thinks back to what the other boy told him, about how he doesn't always sit with them now, and mutters a curse to himself.

The cubicles in the nearest guys' bathroom are all empty, and the rest of the room only has a couple of freshman talking about some gaming marathon and a senior by the sinks. Arthur backs out hurriedly upon spotting him; he recognises the senior from a particular crowd, one he'd prefer to avoid. The older kid probably won't know who he is, but Arthur doesn't want to risk being spotted.

Alfred isn't in any of the other bathrooms nor the common room when Arthur peaks inside. He gets a few stares the longer he stands in the doorway- after all, he's fairly certain in all his time here, he has never spent any time in here. He's not being too paranoid after all; people really do notice if something is out of the ordinary. But he may have been a little too concerned, because as they all look away after barely more than a few seconds, it certainly doesn't seem as if anyone actually cares.

About twenty minutes into his lunch period, he gives up the search. He shares fifth period physics with Alfred, anyway. He might be able to sneak it to him while everyone's packing up to leave. But when he heads round the back of the library to go and eat his lunch, he finds Alfred at the top of the steps.

The other boy holds up his hands as Arthur approaches. 'I know, I know. I'm guessing this is your private spot or whatever. I'm not gonna stay, I swear. What took you so long?'

'I was looking for you,' Arthur says.

Alfred stares at him, then he chuckles lightly. His face shows no signs of the genuine anger that was there yesterday, but Arthur knows all too well how good people can be at hiding what they really think and feel.

'Seriously? Where did you look?'

'Cafeteria. Bathrooms. Common room.'

Alfred laughs. ' _You_ went in the common room?'

'I'm scarred from the experience,' Arthur says dryly. 'I told you, I'd come to you.'

Alfred gestures vaguely at his spot on the steps with a small smile. 'I guess so.'

Arthur takes a seat beside him, hoping his anxiety is as well hidden as any of Alfred's residual bitterness. For one thing, he is privately glad they're on speaking terms; it will make it so much easier to cooperate, and Arthur is still feeling guilty about yesterday, as reluctant as he is to let it affect him.

On the other hand, Alfred has to go. This hasn't changed anything. Arthur still needs to be alone; perhaps even more so now, because he's not sure he's going to handle what he knows will come next, and what will come much further down the line, depending on when he finally plucks up the courage to tell the truth.

He opens up his satchel, biting his lip. _Just do it. He needs it more. A brother is worth more- no. No, that's not fair. Family shouldn't have to be worth more than-_ He cuts off his trail of thought, suddenly picturing Peter. And then it's much easier to think it. _Family could be everything._ Should _be everything._

Alfred must see Matthew again.

Arthur's hand slides into the bag, and his fingers brush up against the older, worn box. His heart hammers against his chest. He wouldn't have packed it if he didn't believe he couldn't do it- couldn't give Alfred his own Chip, for the other boy to keep visiting San Junipero with a Variant for as long as he likes, leaving Arthur stuck with the deadlined one.

It could happen. It _should._

The tips of his fingers remain touching his own Variant package, unmoving. He thinks of Peter. He thinks of how he hates the cold. And then he thinks of the warm beach back home, with the boulders and the rockpools and the tunnels, and the safety, above all else. Because no one could reach him, no one but those who _should._

He hasn't felt that in such a long time. It had left him, piece by piece, year by year. And this is supposed to be it. His chance to revive one last part of it. To feel something good again, something that isn't hidden by the anger and the mask of _forced_ anger, or some shred of emotion that isn't plagued with worry and fear.

His fingers slide across the cardboard, gently, so _gently_ , while the choice falls heavily on the rest of him. And ever so slowly, his hand falls past the withered box, and onto the second one.

 _You monster._

'Here,' he says, pulling the brand new box out. He glances around, making sure no one is around to see, before he shoves it into Alfred's arms. 'Hide it. Quickly.'

'What's th-'

'You know exactly what it is. You got one delivered very recently.' Arthur helps push the box into Alfred's bag when he unzips it.

 _You fucking monster._

The other boy's eyes widen. 'You-'

'Variant,' Arthur says shortly. 'No more messing around the the Indeterminate, it's useless. You have church on Sunday morning, yeah?'

Alfred is too flustered to speak, but he manages to nod.

'Anything planned on Saturday? In the morning?'

'No,' Alfred croaks.

'Good,' Arthur says, and it's as if something is physically twisting inside him and throwing itself against his inner walls of his skin. 'You'll need a lie in. We'll do Friday night. Start at nine. Get to the Vortex as quickly as possible. I'll be there.'

 _You lying, selfish, fucking-_

Alfred is looking right at him, and his eyes are glistening with tears. 'Thank you,' he whispers. 'Thank you so much, Arthur.' He gets to his feet, pulling his backpack over his shoulder. 'I won't bother you 'til then, I promise. _Thank you.'_

He gives a little salute of goodbye that Arthur has seen him do countless times to his friends and then he rushes off down the steps, leaping down the last three with all the enthusiasm of a small child. Arthur watches him race off, knowing full well that as soon as that new Chip is activated, Patrick's remote access will initiate its deadline. He'll have typed all the coding up by now, no doubt. It's already set in stone. Everything is.

And Alfred doesn't know. Because he shouldn't have been given that Chip.

Arthur grabs his own bag and hurries into the library, quickly collapsing into his usual spot in an old, rickety chair with one leg shorter than the other three. It's ancient, from back before Arthur's time here when the school was full of chairs like this, albeit in better condition. The ones they have now are modern and colourful, and far, far comfier.

Arthur doesn't care. He's never cared less than at this exact moment.

 _You have to tell him._

Alfred will find out eventually, one way or another. It would be better to tell him the truth. He should have done, when he gave him the Chip.

 _You should have given him the other one. He needs it more, and you don't care. He lost his brother, and you don't_ care.

Arthur runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. It stings, and his background headache, barely noticeable before but practically always there, flares up at the pull. He grimaces. And keeps doing it.

He begins searching through his bag before he can even think of an alternative- mostly due to the fact that there isn't one. There's no quiet place in this world for him, nowhere to drop the mask and unleash what's underneath. His house is silent for the most part- it has to be, he always tells Peter, and Peter _knows_ why. They both do. The house has to stay quiet. The house isn't the right place.

Neither is the attic, because it may be abandoned and closed off to the rest of the school, but the librarians will surely hear him. He can hear them often enough, and the library isn't exactly loud. Any sudden creak of the floorboards will probably let them know he's up here. The attic isn't the right place.

He opens the box hastily, pulling out the Chip and quickly fastening it to his temple. The familiar bite of the microscopic needle, faint but noticeable, sends cold bursts of the briefest amount of pain spreading across his head, before it slumps forwards and the dim light up above fades away to nothing.

The beach is deserted, and Arthur knows why. San Junipero exists on multiple planes, and never adheres to the natural laws of space. No matter how many people are here, no matter how close to the main town he may seem, if he needs to find himself apart from everyone else and completely undeserved, the virtual reality has its way of delivering.

He puts aside concerns about how Patrick still has the first Chip on record, how he might notice its continued usage and know Arthur was lying. He instead walks beneath the dunes, which loom over him on a small hill of sand and faded yellow grass. Off in the distance, he can hear the waves crashing down into the shallows and the faint scent of salt and vanilla. The boulders are waiting for him, rough but steady when he climbs onto the first one. When he was very little, on a real beach far, far away, he'd been afraid at first that they might all roll down and crush him if he accidentally did the wrong thing while climbing them. But he hadn't been alone that first time, nor so many of the others that followed. He had been told, through gasps of laughter, that he was far too small and light for the rocks to move beneath him.

No one's here to tell him this now, but he isn't a small child anymore. And right now, solitude is all he needs.

This is the right place. It always was.

He clambers to the highest point of the rock pile he can find and steadies himself carefully before straightening up- as if he even needs to worry about falling or the rocks actually dislodging, he remembers, giving a humourless chuff of laughter. Nothing can hurt him here. Not unless he wants it to.

And _(Goddmmit, no)_ he thinks… he thinks at this moment he might just want that. To fall. To be crushed. To let the earth swallow him whole.

Arthur closes his eyes and listens to the sound of the waves and the light breeze drifting through the dunes, then takes a deep breath and screams.

* * *

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 **Thank you again for last chapter's** **response! I'm pretty psyched about continuing to write this fic, so hopefully the next chapter will be out soon.**

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